TRUTHS UNTOLD

 Every street light has at least one secret hidden in their little super nova, like the helpless cry of a vagina who went for a friend's graduation party.

Every knife knows the depth of wounds people try to hide behind their tired laughs, clicking glasses of wine at a sea shore restaurant.

Every woman give birth to fear and then to hope, dividing own cells in half with tenderness and pain.

Every man call love as lust, it's name changed behind closed doors and cinema halls without letting the authorities know.

Every child thought of leaving their home once in a while, for they are not allowed to be themselves among expectations.

Every skin has a purple hue painted in like "Irises" ,that they are afraid of displaying in muesuems. 

Every mother tongue has forgotten words in the flow of time,that are so smooth as pebbles.

Every city has an unknown area where poems bloom under lilac skies.

Every war has stories of star crossed lovers who were not ready to welcome death.

Every house has a struggling song wishing to be heard above broken China plates.

Every garden has a rotten plant dehydrated out of ignorance but is expected to bloom in season.

Every palm with mehandi has dreams she dare not to say in public nor in private.

Every grandmother has a story she cover up in wrinkles and folk songs. 

Every revolution has a start in a small voice which refuses to let it go.

Every kiss has questions it raise like, how am I supposed to give you love when I didn't receive any?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 I am yearning for death.  Forever longing for it...achingly..When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it ca...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more

The Unanswered Ring: Returning to Decision to Leave

Some films don’t scream.They breathe. Softly. Like someone lying next to you who doesn’t dare touch you. “Decision to Leave” wasn’t a thriller to me. It was a letter never sent.A wave that crashed but never reached the shore. I watched Seo-rae fold her silences like laundry. Every movement quiet, every word a disguise. And yet—every glance, a plea: “See me. Even if you don’t believe me.” And Hae-jun— he didn’t fall from a mountain.He dissolved, little by little, like a man walking into the sea,telling himself it’s just water. The film didn’t ask me to watch. It asked me to listen. To sighs. To footsteps. To hunger that never became desire.What kind of love is this? One that doesn’t kiss, but watches.Doesn’t hold, but follows from a distance. Doesn’t beg, but leaves quietly, hoping to be remembered...The kind that hides in plain sight. The kind that tells you,“You’re better off without me,” but still checks if you’ve eaten... A Scene I’ll Never Forget: (And perhaps, never forgive) Seo-r...
Read more